“Well, pussonally,” said Ganymede, “I should be very glad to oblige you, but leave this ’ere glass and plate I can’t. Now, there’s the Clerk of the Curses. He’s pretty tough. Why don’t you send him?” “So I would,” said the Deputy, “but he’s away on his holiday.” “Then there’s the Earth-child,” suggested Ganymede, looking a little ashamed of himself. No one quite knew how the Earth-child had come among the gods. There must have been a mistake somewhere; it was pretty generally known that she was to have been born in Arcadia. There was something of a scandal about it, too. But there she was, generally petted and liked, and happy enough among the gods. “Yes, there’s the Earth-child,” said the Deputy, and he too looked a little ashamed of himself. They talked together a little while longer, and then the Deputy went away, suffering badly from conscience. A few minutes afterwards the Earth-child walked fearlessly into the hall where Zeus was seated. She had red hair, and an intelligent face. She was bright, and affectionate, and twelve years old, and not afraid of anything. “I heard you wanted to be angry with me, Zeus,” said the child. Zeus looked at her grimly. “I should prefer something rather bigger.” “Why do you want to be angry?” the child asked. “Because I’ve done everything, and know almost everything, and I’m quite sick of everything.” “Music?” suggested the child. “Sick of it!” “Love?” “Everything--everything, I tell you,” said Zeus hastily. “I’m tired of eating, drinking, loving, hating, sleeping, walking, talking, killing--everything.” “I’m sorry for you, Zeus,” said the child, with a sigh. “Couldn’t you die?” she suggested afterwards, seriously. Zeus frowned. “No, no--not that,” he said. There was a moment’s pause. Zeus was thinking; and, as he thought, his face grew very ugly. He was immortal, but to a certain extent his immortality was conditioned. He might die at any moment he chose, and remain dead for an hour. If at the end of that hour any one would put his lips on the lips of Zeus, and draw in his breath, then Zeus would come back to life, and he that so drew in his breath would die. But if no one did that, then Zeus himself would be dead for ever. Zeus had never ventured on the experiment; he knew that no one loved him enough. But he might play on the simplicity of the child. And take her life? No, he could not do that. But he would ask her. “Earth-child,” he said, “will you do something for me?” “Yes, Zeus--anything that will make you happy again.” It was horribly tempting. Should he try this one thing of which he knew nothing, of which he was not tired? Yes, he must. “I am going to sleep,” he said rapidly. “I will turn this hour-glass here, and when the last grain of sand is running out, you must put your lips to mine and draw in your breath. Then I shall wake up again, and be happy.” The child stared at him with wondering eyes. “I will do it,” she said.